


5 times clint tried to save kate (and one time pizza dog actually saved them both)

by andibeth82



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Partnership, Protective Clint, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Kate Bishop is – well, okay. It’s not that Kate Bishop is stupid, or even halfway dim-witted, because that’s just about the furthest thing from the truth. Kate Bishop is decently smart, and talented to boot, and on more than one occasion she’s bested Clint Barton's ass enough for him to concede that maybe, just maybe, he needs to keep her around when things get a little too tough to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times clint tried to save kate (and one time pizza dog actually saved them both)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> There's never enough fic about these two...and certainly never enough fic about their (sometimes insane) adventures as Hawkeye and Hawkeye. This was a delight to write, and I hope it's just as enjoyable to read. Merry Yuletide! :)

**1.**

The thing about Kate Bishop is – well, okay. It’s not that Kate Bishop is stupid, or even halfway dim-witted, because that’s just about the furthest thing from the truth. Kate Bishop is decently smart, and talented to boot, and on more than one occasion she’s bested Clint Barton's ass enough for him to concede that maybe, just maybe, he needs to keep her around when things get a little too tough to handle.

(Fucking ninjas though, who had time for fucking ninjas, especially on _New Years_.)

All things considered, Kate’s actually smarter than Clint gives _himself_ credit for, but it doesn’t mean that she’s not impulsive, or rash, or kind of hot-headed. It also doesn’t mean that he doesn’t routinely want to curse her out when he gets a phone call that wakes him from a three hour nap, or when he returns from yet another date gone wrong wanting to be alone and instead finds her in the kitchen, going through his mail and drinking milk straight from the carton as if she owns the place.

Then again, he had given her a key of his own accord after the fifth time he found her trying to pick the lock, so…

Clint relaxes on the floor, stretching out with his legs facing the television, and lowers himself down until his head is almost touching the ground. Propping up on one elbow, he grabs for the remote and listlessly starts to channel surf.

(He really hates mid-afternoon TV sometimes. Who the hell decided that the only people in the world that sat in front of the tube after noon were babies and soap opera fanatics?)

He’s about halfway through the cable guide, his eyes almost ready to glaze over from the lack of decent programming, when something on one of the news stations catches his eye. Frowning slightly, Clint clicks back a few channels before settling on a Fox telecast where a slightly disheveled reporter with bright blonde hair is more or less screaming into her microphone about an armed robbery taking place at a convenience store in one of the worst parts of Jersey, and civilians hurt and shots fired, and what else was fucking new?

And then there’s a flash of something across the screen, like a ghost, and Clint furrows his brow as he scoots closer towards the television, because maybe his mind is playing tricks on him and maybe he hadn’t just seen what he thought he had just seen, except he would know those purple pants anywhere. Especially when they’re not sitting in front of his face. And especially when they’re firing an arsenal of arrows into the frame.

He manages to find the pause button on the DVR and the picture freeze-frames in a blurry capture of the anchorwoman mid-yell, her mouth open in a small “o” as if she’s screaming silently.

_Son of a bitch._

Clint hauls himself to his feet and grabs his bow from the wall, his quiver from his closet, and his keys from the counter as he barrels out the door at breakneck speed, practically throwing himself into his car. He blazes down the street at a rather casual 80 miles per hour (and let them try to give him a ticket, he’s an Avenger, for crying out loud) until he turns onto the highway, the car jerking to a halt as his foot stomps prematurely on the break pedal.

“Aw, traffic, no.”

The line of cars stretches in front of him, unmoving as far as Clint can see, and for a brief second he considers ditching the car all together. Except he isn’t Iron Man, and he isn’t Captain America, he can’t fly and he doesn’t have super speed. The most he can do is run, and he knows that by the time he got five feet down the road, chances were the traffic would move anyway, because of course it would. Murphy’s Law.

(Besides, he figures that if Kate hasn’t killed herself yet, chances were she’d still be alive when he got there. Hopefully.)

By the time he arrives at the scene, pulling up in an empty parking lot across the street, there are ambulances all over, as well as a few police cars, some yellow tape, and an annoying gaggle of people that Clint has to push his way through in order to even see what’s going on. There’s some blood covering the ground but thankfully, no evidence of body bags, and when he looks around a little more he finally spots Kate sitting on the back of one of the fire trucks, practically hanging off the bumper with her legs swinging back and forth. Her arrowheads are spotted with blood and she definitely looks worse for the wear, but, Clint notes almost immediately, no worse than he’s seen her look after a massive hangover.

“I’m fine,” she says as soon as she sees him, jumping off the vehicle. “Swear. Just a few scrapes and bruises. War wounds! See?” She lifts her arm proudly, pointing to the swelling bump on the side of her head. He scowls, dragging her up by the arm, figuring that she can’t be hurt that badly if she’s bragging about a goddamn head injury.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re late. I bet Captain America doesn’t take an hour to get to a major disaster. Probably even stops for a burger on the way.”

“Captain America can run faster than me, not to mention he has a higher ranking than I do as an Avenger thanks to his history and –” Clint cuts himself off as the corners of Kate’s mouth curl into a smile. “Nevermind. This isn’t a major disaster. And there was traffic, okay? Jersey’s a bitch.”

“Sure,” Kate says agreeably, following him to the car. “But don’t tell me this wasn’t a major disaster, Hawkeye. There were news cameras all over the place. How many news cameras showed up when we beat the crap out of the Tracksuit Mafia, huh?”

Clint ignores the question, leading her away from the growing crowd, trying not to be too annoyed when people start waving her off with calls of “thank you!” and “we really appreciate your help!” He keeps his words to himself during the car ride home and later, when they’re sitting on the couch together and Clint has finally opened a beer and Kate is nursing her minor concussion and Lucky is curled up at her side licking her palm, he finds that he can’t help himself.

“You’re not an Avenger.”

“I’m _almost_ an Avenger.”

Clint leans over, bumping her shoulder ever so slightly.

“Therein lies the difference, Katie-Kate.”

 

**2.**

It’s been two days since Kate’s come by his apartment.

That’s not a rarity, not exactly – Kate actually has better things to do than hang out with _Clint fucking Barton_ (her words, totally her words) – but it _is_ rare that Clint doesn’t get at least a text message or a phone call or hell, even one of those stupid butt dials. Because that’s Kate, and that’s what Clint is used to, and that’s how their relationship has evolved and so sue him for being slightly on edge when his partner just kind of disappears off the grid and goes radio silent for no reason.

He holds off on calling, because he knows that’s the worst thing you can do, no matter what kind of relationship you’re in. To be honest, he’s not really sure whether he’s done something unintentional to piss her off or if she just wants a break and, well, the more he tries to put it out of his mind the more he worries, and soon he’s downing beer after beer while only half paying attention to the television.

Clint picks up his cell phone, idly flipping through random messages, and as he eyes down he catches a glimpse of another small object, one he recognizes by way of the small purple and white arrow emblazoned on the back of the case.

Kate’s cell phone.

He grabs for it, nearly diving onto the floor, half from tipsiness and half from bad aim, fumbling with the buttons. It’s locked, but Kate keeps the same four-digit password for everything in her life and as he watches the small icons zoom into place, he finds himself suddenly glad that at least she hadn’t listened to him when he yelled at her about the merits of privacy and safety.

_(“Privacy? Safety? You don’t even have a goddamn will, Barton.”)_

Clint starts thumbing through her messages before he can talk himself out of it, even though he can almost hear the bad idea warnings rumbling through his brain because what the hell was he doing, anyway? He stops asking himself that question when his finger pauses on a message dated this morning, landing on an East Village address with the name “Ben” attached to it.

Ben. Who the hell was _Ben_? And why the hell was Kate texting him the way she would text a boyfriend, all smiley icons and inside jokes and constant back and forths? Clint wouldn’t say he was the smartest person to ever walk the earth but he knows his partner and he knows Kate doesn’t have a boyfriend.

So what the hell?

He gets up without thinking, shoving her cell phone in his pocket as he hurries out the door. Opting for the subway instead of his car, he crams himself into an overfilled N train, muttering apologies to an old lady who he shoves out of the way by accident while trying to get on and off.

A few left turns and wrong turns later, Clint’s standing in front of a dilapidated apartment building that looks like it belongs right next to his own sorry establishment. _Out of all the ideas you’ve had, Barton, this one might be the worst_ , he thinks as he lets himself in by the aid of another tenant, climbing the stairs and stopping in front of a door on the third floor. He raps his knuckles twice against the wood and then draws back, his hands by his side, a resting stance that he figures looks decently non-threatening but also one that allows him easy access to grab for his bow if he needs to defend himself. Or her, for that matter.

He waits in silence before he knocks once more, and this time, a distinct grumbling accompanies the noise on the other side of the wall.

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus, I’m coming.” The door swings open and Clint stares down at the unfamiliar man, the way his long brown hair hangs right over his eyes, and he way he takes a step back in surprise after catching a glimpse of Clint and his weapon.

“Can I help you?”

“Can I help _you_ is the question,” Clint says, side stepping into the apartment despite the man’s protests. “I’m looking for my partner.”

“Your…partner?” The man asks, clearly confused, and it’s only when Clint turns back that he realizes the man is half dressed. He barely has time to register that particular thought when a voice behind him makes him jump.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Kate’s standing in the doorway of what he presumes has to be the bedroom, clutching a blanket to cover up her obviously naked state, her dark hair in disarray and her eyes narrowed in a glare. Clint swivels his head again before an embarrassed rush of emotions starts to make their way onto his face in the form of a really heavy blush.

“I thought…” He trails off while the man raises his eyebrows, and after a long beat, Kate suddenly breaks into a goofy grin.

“Oh my god, Clint…you…you thought I was in trouble, didn’t you?” She shakes her head. “That’s amazing, even for you.”

_Barton, you dumbass._

“You left your phone at my place,” Clint says lamely, aware of how much he sounds like an idiot. He shoves his bow down by his side as he meets the other man’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I mean, I’m not –”

“Hey, bro, it’s cool.” He shrugs, crossing his arms. “You’re, like, an Avenger, yeah? Fucking awesome.”

“Yeah. Like an Avenger,” Clint mutters while Kate gives him another look. He shuffles his feet, backing out of the door. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later, I guess.”

He more or less slinks down the stairs, muttering to himself about how they’ll probably talk about it later - except now it actually is later, and he’s sitting on the couch and she’s staring at him expectantly, and he realizes how much he had been hoping to avoid this conversation. He had really, really, really been hoping to avoid it. Besides, what did he know about sex, anyway?

(Apparently a lot, if you counted two divorces and one doombot, which he kind of hopes that Kate hasn’t managed to figure out because she would never, ever let him live that one down for as long as she lived, and Clint really didn’t want to put an arrow through his best partner’s throat.)

Kate finally breaks the silence, rolling her eyes.

“Look, Clint, I’m not asking you to give me the sex talk or something. I’ve used condoms before. I’m not a prude.”

 _Well, okay._ That’s out of the way at least.

“Besides,” Kate continues. “I don’t know if it’s actually smart to ask for advice from someone who once unknowingly screwed a robot.”

 _Fuck._ He cringes. “Who told you that?”

“Natasha,” Kate replies nonchalantly, picking at a hangnail as she leans back further on the couch while Clint bolts up a little straighter.

“Hang on. Since when do you talk to Natasha?”

Kate shrugs. “Since I needed advice, and you abandoned me.”

“But…” Clint trails off, shaking his head, trying to wrap his brain around all the words in her previous sentence. “Natasha?”

“Would you rather I went to Bobbi?”

“No!” Clint bursts out quickly, flinging his hands upwards as Kate groans.

“Look, Clint. No offense, but your female friends are far and few between. Well, friends too, for that matter, but I’ll let that one slide. The point is, you’ve either fucked them over, or, well…just fucked them. Either way, you don’t leave the best impression. I was in a bind, so I went to the first person I thought of that probably wouldn’t kill me.”

“You thought Natasha wouldn’t kill you?” Clint chuckles dryly. “You’d be surprised.”

“Nah, I brought her the tea she likes from that shop in Little Italy. You can’t kill someone for being thoughtful. I mean, I guess you could, but that’d be pretty dumb.” Kate grins. “And we had some pretty intense discussions. Did you know that Natasha once managed to bed four guys in the span of six minutes?”

“Gah, shut up, shut up, shut up!” Clint presses his hands to his ears. “Just…keep that stuff private, okay? Jeez.”

“Suit yourself.” Kate leans back on the couch and they both lapse into silence as Lucky jumps up to nuzzle Kate’s hand. After a long while, she finally speaks.

“I should be pissed that you hacked my phone –”

“-- I didn’t hack it, you use the same goddamn password for everything –”

“But it’s okay. Because you saved me.”

“I didn’t –”

“No, really.” Kate shrugs. “Thanks. For saving me. Or, you know…for trying.” There’s an impish glint in her eyes but everything else about her response is serious, and Clint’s caught slightly off guard by it all.

“Anytime, Katie-Kate.”

 

**3.**

He didn’t ask for her.

Like, literally, Clint Barton didn’t ask for Kate Bishop. Then again, he didn’t ask to be a superhero, either -- that just happened because he was rather good with a bow and he had to figure out how to save his own ass, and then it just seemed like a good idea and, well, things with Bobbi kind of went south really quickly and Clint had to prove himself somehow, and he always had to feel like he was _proving_ himself…

So yeah, Kate was kind of the same thing.

It’s a stuffy, humid-filled day in the middle of summer and they’re both at the range, largely because there aren’t a lot of places that Clint feels comfortable deploying his arrows outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. walls without hurting people, and largely because he doesn’t really mind the range, so long as Kate’s there to keep him company and keep him from his own thoughts.

Except for the first time in awhile, he’s really minding this particular session, because for some reason, he’s only made a handful of clean shots and Kate hasn’t missed a mark yet. He raises his arms and squints into the distance, feeling her eyes on his back as he releases the last projectile.

“Aw, arrow, no,” Clint mutters, watching it falter. Kate steps up behind him and shoots at the same time, knocking a dummy clean off its feet.

“You’re such a sore loser, Barton. I think you need to remember what it feels like to be human.” She shrugs, shouldering her bow. “People miss.”

“I never miss,” Clint says sourly, tossing his bow to the ground. “And seriously, you just got over the flu. Two days ago, I had to carry you out of bed. Now you’re besting me at the range?”

“Super secret healing serum,” Kate says smugly and Clint snorts.

“Yeah, whatever, Captain America. I’m going home. I gotta walk Lucky, anyway.”

“Sore loser!” Kate calls out again with a lilt to her tone as he turns on his heel with a scowl, fishing his car keys out of his pocket.

 

***

 

So Clint kind of lies because he doesn’t go back home at all, at least, not right away. Instead, he stops for a few groceries and replenishes the stock of Lucky’s dog food, complete with a new chew toy that Clint figures might make up for the fact he’s ignored his pet for two days in favor of his partner’s well-being. He’s just made the turn onto his block when his phone starts to ring annoyingly, Kate’s over-enthusiastic mugshot lighting up in his peripheral vision.

“I thought you were home,” she says in frustration as he hits the speaker button, keeping one hand on the wheel. Clint cringes.

“Forgot to get dog food,” he says, and figures he’s at least kind of telling the truth so maybe it’s not as bad as outright fibbing. He hears Kate sigh in exasperation.

“Well, I’m locked out because I lost my key. I was hoping you’d be able to let me in.”

“Give me five minutes and I will,” Clint responds as a distant noise startles him, causing his brow to furrow.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Kate grunts and she suddenly sounds far away. Clint frowns and presses down a little harder on the gas pedal as he speeds through the Brooklyn streets.

“Do you need help?”

“Ugh.” He can almost see her annoyed face over the line. “I didn’t say that. Just get here, okay?”

“Get --” Clint cuts himself off as the line goes dead and guns through a red light, figuring that no one in this part of shithole Brooklyn is going to care very much about law breaking. When he reaches his street, he aligns himself into a spot haphazardly, in a loose version of what might be able to be considered parallel parking, hurrying out of the car and forgetting about the groceries entirely.

Surprisingly, Kate’s nowhere to be found.

Clint paces back and forth and walks up and down the stairs in front of the apartment, checking the side of the building and the sidewalk behind him, but finding nothing -- until he looks up and catches a flash of purple standing precariously on the fire escape three floors up, one hand reaching shakily towards what he knows is his usually open bathroom window.

“Kate!”

He shoves his key into the lock and opens the door, running up the stairs two at a time with heaving breaths. By the time he reaches the bathroom, he can feel the sweat pouring down his back but at least he can still see her, balanced on the balls of her feet as she tries to coordinate her movements so that she doesn’t fall.

“Where the hell did you get this bright idea?” Clint asks, settling himself near the window. “I told you I was coming -- _fuck_!” He interrupts his own sentence as the top of his head slams into the open sill, and squeezes his eyes against the pain.

“Got it,” Kate says triumphantly, and when he blinks the world back into focus she’s tumbling through the window and onto the rug in a tangled pile of uncoordinated limbs. Clint rubs at the bump on his forehead and sinks down onto the toilet seat as Kate gets up and folds her arms, pushing back a strand of dark hair.

“Thanks for the help, by the way. Next time, I get to stomp away like a child and buy the dog food.”

 

**4.**

“When I said I wanted to go to the zoo, this wasn’t what I had in mind,” Clint complains as he plays with his fingers, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. Undercover ops had never been his forte, mostly because he always felt naked and vulnerable putting himself in a potentially dangerous situation without being able to have an arrow between his fingers. Kate sighs over-dramatically beside him, slipping on her glasses.

“You act like I’m the one who decided she wanted to exchange a package of psychotropic drugs in the middle of the monkey section,” she says, crossing her legs and taking a sip of the coffee she’s bought from a nearby vendor. “At least this way, we get free admission.”

“Sneaking in is not free admission,” Clint grumbles, but he has to admit she has a point. And he would be lying to say it hadn’t crossed his mind that they could actually enjoy some sightseeing time after this was all over, so long as nothing went terribly bad.

“Seems free to me,” Kate replies with a small shrug. “Oh, but wait, I’m a spoiled brat, aren’t I?”

Clint can’t help it, he laughs a little as he meets her eyes, managing to catch the hint of mirth hidden behind her dark shades. “Yes you are, Katie-Kate.”

A flash of movement catches his eye, then, a man who wanders into their line of sight looking slightly jumpy and far too well-dressed for a day in an animal house. Clint nudges Kate silently with her foot and she looks up, aligning her gaze with his, nodding in agreement as they both move shift casually in their spot on the bench, Kate turning in pretend conversation so that she can see the man more clearly.

“Think they’re onto us?” Clint asks as he keeps their eyes locked. She shakes her head with a thoughtful look, as if she’s answering a question about the weather.

“These guys aren’t that smart. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just two tourists enjoying a Saturday afternoon at the Bronx Zoo. Until we’re not,” she adds casually, and Clint manages a smile. After another moment, Kate gives him a look that clearly says move, and they get up from the bench, pretending to double check their maps and bags as they survey the scene in front of them.

The well-dressed man looks about as uncomfortable as Clint feels, but unlike the archer, he’s doing a lousy job at hiding it, shifting from one foot to the other as he busies himself in front of one of the orangutan cages, attempting to read the information printed on one of the pedestals. Clint figures that most people wouldn’t pay him much mind but he can clearly see the way the man’s shoulders tense, the way his muscles jump erratically, and he nudges Kate again as another man joins him.

This one, Clint knows, has to be more used to these kind of situations -- he’s dressed much more casually, his gait is calm and sure, and his slight of hand is so good that Clint almost misses the way he passes off the small brown package as he wanders by. Clint waits until the man sticks it into his coat before they start to follow a few paces behind.

“Shit,” Kate mutters as the man detours into one of the reptile houses, and Clint realizes it almost as soon as she does -- whether or not he’s a novice, he knows enough to get himself out of the spotlight. And if he’s spotted either of them, it means that he’s leading them into close quarters that would make it harder for them to detain him without trouble. They pause at the edge of the entrance, and Kate glances sideways.

“You wanna do this, Hawkeye?”

Clint sighs and squares his shoulders. “Only way to live, Hawkeye.”

They enter at the same time, Clint immediately making a face at the damp, dimly lit atmosphere. He’s never liked reptiles all that much, not since Barney had brought home a snake from the garden that he had tortured Clint with simply because he thought it was amusing to see his brother freak out. And even though he knows the ones he’s looking at are protected by glass, it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“ _Mmmrgh_.”

A sharp grunt from behind startles him and then there’s a blinding pain on the side of his head, and he finds himself stumbling forward as his vision blurs, blinking against dizziness and nausea.

_Okay. This looks bad._

He curls his head down, forgetting about his vulnerability while willing the pain to pass, and manages to lift his gaze just in time to see Kate battling the offender, using some pretty nifty hand moves that Clint thinks he’s probably taught her once upon a time. His vision is still swimming considerably, but he manages to drag himself to his knees, crawling along the dank floor until his fingers can reach the package that’s fallen from the man’s grasp.

“Got it,” Clint mutters, shoving it into his jacket pocket while struggling to his feet. Kate’s still caught up in her fight, and with the man seemingly oblivious to Clint’s movements, he uses the advantage to ram his body into the offender, knocking him to the floor where he soon follows.

The good news, he thinks, is that the man is definitely knocked out. The bad news is that he’s pretty sure his head might explode.

“Great. Really great, Clint,” Kate says, wiping blood from her nose as she reaches down and grabs for his arms. “Try to save me with a damn concussion.”

“It’s not a concussion,” Clint protests as she helps him stand, though he figures at this point he can’t exactly be sure; he does feel like he’s going to puke and he’s never been good at reading the extent of his own injuries, that had always been a job for Kate or Bobbi or Natasha or Jess. Kate sighs, pulling him close in a loose hug.

“Come on, partner. I’ll take you to the emergency room. Ride’s on me.”

Clint lets her lead him out of the reptile house, frowning as they make their way out of the zoo.

“We never got our free visit,” he says a little moodily as if he’s just realizing it, and Kate tightens her grip on his arm.

“We’ll come back,” she says, her response clearly placating, as Clint’s voice takes on a whine.

“But I wanted to tell you about the hawks. The red-tailed hawk is the most geographically popular one in America. And it basically eats small mammals, which is really interesting, you know? And they’re fully ready to mate at the age of two, which is like, dog years for them…”

“Oh my god,” Kate breaks in, her voice teetering on the edge of exasperation as they reach the exit. “How hard did that guy hit you? Did you ingest any of those drugs by accident? Where did you get all this knowledge?”

“I told you,” Clint says, meeting her eyes, taking in her half-broken glasses and the cut on her face. “I really like the zoo.”

 

**5.**

It’s Christmas.

It’s Christmas, and for the first time in forever, Clint thinks that his life might not be so bad.

Sure, there are the annoying carolers, and the fact that thugs seemed to like to make his working life more hectic during the holidays, as if they bide their time all year just to let loose on the days between December 15 and December 31. And then there’s the fact that he still can’t figure out how to string the lights on his tree correctly, which means only half of the multicolored bulbs work, which in turn causes Simone to mutter that his festivities look like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

There’s also Kate, who for the first time has decided not to spend her holidays with America or any of the other Avengers, and instead has taken to organizing what she calls a “holiday bonanza.” Clint soon figures out that actually means some sort of potluck dinner, and he had been so caught off guard when she said that she had wanted to spend the holidays with him at all that he hadn’t even protested when she mentioned she had roped Natasha and Jess into coming as well.

“Besides, Natasha makes the most amazing mac and cheese that you’ve ever tasted,” Kate had said, as if that would be enough to sell Clint on having his best friend around. “And Jess is bringing dessert.”

That left Kate as being obligated to cook most of the actual meal and Clint to his own devices, most of which included cleaning and making sure Lucky looked presentable, as well as figuring out how the hell to make his Christmas tree look like something that didn’t fall out of Charlie Brown’s animated world.

“Goddamn, can you turn that down?” Clint yells over the Christmas carols that Kate has chosen to blare through her portable speakers. “I can’t hear myself think.”

“It’s Christmas, and I want music,” Kate retorts from the kitchen area, and as Clint wrestles Lucky into a horribly patterned dog sweater, he thinks he hears a crash and a yelp from her direction. Lucky takes off at the sound and Clint follows with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the counter.

“If you break my kitchen, I’ll kill you,” he says good-naturedly, causing Kate to grin.

“What’s the matter, Barton? Afraid I’ll Hulk-smash your coffee pot?”

“No,” Clint says, but it doesn’t stop him from carefully moving the machine out of the way as Kate slides by him with a large pan. “Aren’t you done cooking yet?”

“You clearly have never cooked in your life before,” Kate says, sticking the pan in the oven. “It takes an entire day to make a meal.”

“And it takes five minutes to heat up a microwave dinner,” Clint shoots back. “Make your point again, Katie.”

She doesn’t answer, and instead grabs for a few napkins and paper plates, shoving them into Clint’s hand.

“Set the table, okay? Everyone’s going to be here soon.”

Clint obliges, moving to the living room to set the items down on the large coffee-table-turned-dinner-table. Despite his happiness at Kate’s decision, he had been initially wary about having people over, considering his apartment wasn’t much of a place for entertainment (unless you counted the roof, and that was out of the question given the time of year.) He thinks he’s managed to make everything look okay, though, at least, enough so that he wouldn’t get comments about the state of his living quarters.

Clint’s in the middle of laying the last knife on a napkin when Lucky barks sharply, shaking him out of his thoughts and alerting him to the smell of smoke at the same time.

“Uh...Kate?” Clint straightens up and hurries back into the kitchen, where Kate is standing over the stove. The oven door is thrown open, curly wisps of smoke billowing from inside, and from what he can see of the pan, everything looks completely charred.

“Kate!”

He pulls her back and towards the window, shoving it open and letting the smoke filter out. She wrenches out of his grasp, looking a little forlorn and not at all concerned.

“Guess that’s it for the turkey.”

“Kate….” Clint trails off, trying to move her out of the smoky room, and she walks briskly away from his hold.

“Clint, come on. I was fine.”

“Fine?” Clint can’t stop himself from yelling, and he hardly even registers the sound of the buzzer, or Kate striding across the room to fling the door open, Natasha and Jess standing on the other side, their arms laden with trays covered in silver tinfoil.

“You almost blew up the goddamn kitchen!”

Kate shrugs a little embarrassingly and offers a lopsided grin, grabbing a plate of sugar cookies off the small table in the corner and holding them out in front of her.

“Merry Christmas?”

 

**+1**

Clint thinks he could come up with a better way to spend his birthday than the hospital. Scratch that - Clint’s _definitely_ sure he could come up with a better way to spend his birthday than the hospital. And usually, Kate would be the one to berate him for even being there in the first place, except that this time, he’s the one in the chair and she’s the one sitting on the hospital bed, her face down-turned in a scowl, one arm shouldered in a sling.

It had been more of a freak accident than nothing else, the nature of which would have made Clint laugh if he wasn’t in so much pain. The assignment had come in while they were both in the middle of breakfast, Clint already having downed a full pot of coffee, and although he had been admittedly annoyed at the interruption on a day he hoped would include beer, naps and Dog Cops, he hadn’t really any reason to turn the mission down. After all, it was a simple detaining of a mob group in one of the Brooklyn strongholds, something that he knew could be handled in less than a day -- less than half a day, even, if Clint could convince Kate to join him on back-up.

According to Clint, if anyone asks, they can use that story instead of the one that really happened, the one where they had barely made it a block out of the neighborhood before some kid on a joyride ran a red light, swerving onto the curb and hitting both of them at an alarming speed. Clint had managed to maneuver himself out of the way with the result of a few scrapes and cuts, but Kate was less lucky, fracturing several bones in her arm in the process.

“You’re a trooper,” Clint says as Kate glares through runny eyeliner.

“Hurts like a bitch. Is this the part where I say I’m glad to be alive?”

“Yes,” Clint says, because in all the times he’s injured himself, he thinks he might never admit to her how freaked out he was in the five seconds where they both stared death in the face. “Guess it was a good thing Lucky was there.” He shoves the painkillers into his pocket, remembering the way the dog had beelined out of the open door, barking incessantly and alerting them to the way the car was swerving down the road, allowing them the precious seconds of react time.

“Yeah,” Kate admits slowly, struggling to sit up. “Guess I owe him about ten baths.”

“Eh, just give him a few of your old arrows next time you get a new stash,” Clint says with a shrug. “He’s pretty easy to please.”

“Unlike you?” Kate asks icily and Clint smiles.

“Exactly like me,” he says, grabbing her jacket from the chair. “Just waiting on the car, otherwise we’re cleared to go.”

Kate gets to her feet unsteadily, wincing through the pain. “Does this mean you get to baby me for the next few weeks?”

“Hell, no,” Clint says with a horrified look, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her jacket over her good arm. “First of all, I just waited around for two days through surgery and fed you goddamn ice chips while trying to nurse my own injuries. Second of all, you’re going to be bossing me around enough that I’ll want to throw you back to Avengers mansion before I even begin to feel pity.”

“I can’t wait,” Kate replies smugly and Clint can't help but smile again because screw his birthday, he feels happy and he’s alive, and he’s got Kate, and he's _alive_ , and somehow, going back to his small apartment and watching television while she puts her feet up on his lap and he rests his head on her shoulder feels like it could be one of the best nights he’s had in a long time.

And maybe this wasn't such a bad way to spend his birthday after all.

“Come on, Katie-Kate." He brushes his cheek against her hair, pulling away just in time to catch the familiar glint in her eye. "Let’s go home.”

 

 


End file.
